Rugby World Cup: Risteárd Cooper says that, like the Kiwis, each competing team should perform a ritual reflecting their homeland – in our case, the ruggerdance
If the Rugby World Cup reminds us of anything it is that time waits for no man. One chance – and if you don’t take it, you wait four years. Four years is a long time. Four years ago, we travelled with a spring in our step to the land of ooh la la and café au lait, brim full of optimism that maybe, possibly, barring injuries and all, just maybe this could be the year.
Of course we should have known better, we should have heeded the warning signs, that is: optimism plus Irishness equals disaster. Back then, we were loaded and hopeless; now we’re bankrupt and hopeful. Again! These days though, the Chocolate Goldgrains have been replaced by Custard Creams, the ooh la la has turned into ah Jaysus and the café au lait is firmly Maxwell House.
Also, four years ago, one Eddie O’Sullivan was Ireland’s coach. Since then the land of opportunity beckoned for Eddie O, and he became head coach of the United States of America, no less (yes, Ireland’s first opponents on September 11th, if you don’t mind).
If either side advances far enough they may even meet the scariest team on the planet: New Zealand. The prospect of M’a Nonu or Sonny Bill Williams running at Paddy Wallace would make the opening 10 minutes of Saving Private Ryan look like Gone With TheWind.
Indeed, this World Cup is all about New Zealand, a country in which rugby is so ingrained into it’s every fibril, even their sheep play seven-a-side while no one is looking. The original ba-bas perhaps? Granted the woolly ones may not fully grasp the rules, they might struggle a bit with binding, rucking and scrummaging, but they’d hardly be alone there, would they? In fact, that would simply indicate they have a lot in common with say, Connacht. Relax, people of the West, I’m only pulling your jumpers.
Of course, their obsession with the oval game can verge on personality disorder (the Kiwis that is, not the sheep or the people of Connacht) leading to accusations that they may not be the most interesting people in the world. But surely the “Kiwis are dull” tag is old hat at this stage.
Look at Seán Fitzpatrick for goodness sake!! Actually hold on maybe he’s not the best example . . . eh, Warren Gatland? Now, come on, there has to be someone. Graeme Henry? Okay, let’s come back to that.
Regardless of their “personality” or their psychological make-up, no other team has ever gone into the World Cup as such overwhelming favourites, except perhaps themselves four years ago, and we all know what happened then. Every time they see the word France, each letter must shudder like a dodgy neon sign at Halloween.
Although it’s debatable whether they could possibly hate meeting them as much as Ireland. Presumably they’ll avoid wearing that fecky grey kit they wore that day, but regardless, this time it seems unfeasible that the spookily brilliant Kiwi power rangers won’t manage to lift the gold thing at the end of October.
What sort of world would it be if players like McCaw, Carter and Muliaina could finish their careers without the medal that Mike Tindall and Steve Thompson already have in their rather large back pockets. For Ireland though the message is simple – win the pool and you won’t meet the All Blacks until the final. Then it’s just a simple case of beating the number one team in the universe for the first time in history in their own backyard.
Mmm, piece of cake!
If being the hosts and being the best team in the world ever, ever, ever wasn’t enough, they also have the haka. Critics say it gives them an unfair advantage, that it’s a commercial gimmick or that it’s intimidating. Intimidating?
They slap their thighs, stick out their tongues and bulge their eyes – what’s so intimidating about that? Women in Drogheda have been putting up with that for years. Nonetheless, it has now become a major question for opponents – what do you do when faced with the haka? Might I suggest that at this World Cup, each competing nation perform some kind of ritual that reflects the cultural resonance of their homeland.
So while the All Blacks perform the Maori war dance, pounding the turf and promising to eat their opponents heads without the use of cutlery, Eddie O’ and his US Eagles could perform a number from Glee. Don’t Stop Believing, maybe? England could re-work a routine from Cats, with Martin Johnson doing lead feline gesticulator – and what better response to the haka than Deccie and the boys performing Riverdance in the final.
Deccie as Flatley and ROG as Jean Butler! Even if he’s only on the bench. Now that would certainly confuse them, if nothing else.
The biggest event in the sport beckons, the place where rugby and God are lauded in equal measure awaits, and after the depressing, suffering of four years ago, our humble land has another chance to shine on the biggest stage of them all, before waiting another four years.
And while much has changed for the worse since the last world cup, sport has a habit of throwing individuals into the spotlight who manage to crystallise the vagueness, capture the intangible and put the bigger picture into perspective. Yes indeed as America’s head coach ventured recently, “Sometimes you have to husk the corn before you pick the raspberries. You gotta prioritise and win the ball game. Nothing else matters jack shit. You goddamn go out there, protect the pill and win the cotton pickin’ ball game. Empty the L column and fill the W column. At the end of the day it’s all about the W.”
Ah, he hasn’t changed a bit! Welcome back Eddie O’, and roll on 9/11/11.
